Where I was 2 weeks ago

I am a different person when I am alone. I am me. Really me. No one but me will ever know this person. No one will ever know me. No one.

Have you ever heard of anyone who is content to be alone? I wish for that. I’m not there yet. It is unfortunately true that no man is an island. And with my music, where would I be without the audience, without all of your ears? My writing is deeply fulfilling, as is recording myself, but then the music needs to be heard and enjoyed and I need to know that it has been heard and enjoyed or else it feels like the circle has not been fully drawn. I’ve said this before and now I’ll say it again: I consider this – needing to know my music is appreciated and even loved – a character flaw.

But sometimes I feel that my life alone is so perfect and wonderful and ideal and utopian and sometimes I love my life, and by extension myself, so much that I can’t tolerate any sort of intrusion or visit by anyone into my perfect world; in my music world, even positive criticism can irritate when the work is misunderstood or not fully and properly consumed and digested and appreciated.

I lie in my bed at night and I think, “God, I fucking love my bed. It’s the most comfortable bed in the whole world. And I LOVE my flannel sheets and I love being warm in my bed on a cold snowy night and I love sleeping and I love dreaming and I love my hammer and my baseball bat and I loved what I ate for dinner and I loved Betty and I loved that guy and God how lucky I am/was to have had them for a short time in my life – they were like gravy on top of everything or like the most delectable icing on the life-cake and who the hell am I to ask for anything sweet to last forever, anyway?… I love the books I am reading now (the collected stories of Amy Hempel and also “The Fat Man in History” by Peter Carey) and I love that I can go to bed whenever I want and I love that I can get out of bed whenever I want and I love that I don’t have to say “Good morning” to anybody – that I don’t have to speak at all first thing in the morning, when I am usually in no mood for words – and that I don’t have to worry about morning breath and I love love love that I have no major health problems and I love getting older because with the passing of the years comes wisdom and better use of the shorter amount of time and I love that I am not worried or scared about getting older and I love that I still manage to bring in enough money to live without having a day job that I don’t love (thank you, people, for that) and I love that some people care a lot about what I do and I love that kind of new-ish Oasis song about the shock of the lightning and…and…and….etc.etc.etc.” Endless loves, I have.

When the days do not seem perfect I can let myself be led astray and/or hurt. Once in a while I get bored of order and calm – I get restless – or I get lonely (when I remember I am human) and I let myself get beaten down a little, but it’s sort of a game to me, like jumping in the boxing ring with someone a whole weight class or two above me. Just because it’s a game doesn’t mean that it doesn’t really hurt. It does. I bear the scars. And I still love each and every one of my sparring partners (I still love my enemy) who were fighting because we were both in the ring voluntarily at the same time and so none of them can be blamed for all of my (metaphorical) black eyes and busted lips and concussions and contusions and broken bones and brain damage.

-Juliana Hatfield